


Bright Lights

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Dark, Dark!Margaery, Dark!Sansa, F/F, F/M, M/M, Pole Dancing, Strippers & Strip Clubs, hustlers au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:50:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21711046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Under the bright lights, it’s almost enough for Sansa to forget where she’s been and where she’s going.That is, until Margaery comes in to remind her how sweet and beautiful revenge truly is.
Relationships: Joffrey Baratheon/Margaery Tyrell, Jon Snow/Ygritte, Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand, Ramsay Bolton/Myranda Royce, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Talisa Maegyr/Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	Bright Lights

**Author's Note:**

> So, hope everyone is ready for some really angsts dark shit. I can’t promise a happy ending- I just got inspired by Hustlers, but added a buuuuunch of background stuff onto it and made it pretty gritty at times. And trust me, I plan on making it get worse. I think Margaery and Sansa deserve a little revenge, especially in this timeline.

Sansa Stark had never felt so alone in her life.

It was laughable, really- she’d been much more alone before, especially in that dark time going from club to club, trying to find money to keep herself alive, feeling like her body and her mind were too separate things, worlds apart. Then she was truly, truly alone.

Now, in the uptown club, under the bright lights and in front of the suits below her, she felt loneliness like never before. She knew she’d get off that stage, knew she’d go to the dressing room and stand amongst the other girls, trying to fix her makeup as they shot her side-eyed glances. 

Yeah, the uptown club was better than some of the grungy, dirty places she used to dance at. But with it came fierce competition that she hadn’t expected. She wasn’t expecting some fucking kumbaya-pillow-fight-girls-night shit, but she at least expected them to all be united in the fact that they wished they had to go out on that stage every night with the same fake, sultry grins.

She slammed her makeup case shut a little too tightly as Ros whispered something to her friend, shooting little glances at Sansa the whole time. Probably about her cheap thigh-highs or her fake lashes that were just beginning to fall. Who knows. If they would’ve actually talked to her, for once, she could’ve given them a lot more to criticize.

It didn’t matter. She’d made cash that night, had danced good. She’d never do the moves that Ros or Myranda could, but she was fine with that. It was the same reason she didn’t wear as much makeup as them, or didn’t strip on stage like they were prone to- she was always supposed to sell her look differently. Where they were sexy and hardened, a succubus in all ways, she was supposed to fit a different bill- quiet, beautiful, girl next door.

She changed into a pair of jeans, a thick sweater, and a jacket. A weird contrast to her previous look, now covered from almost head to toe. It felt nice, especially with the bitter New York City wind cutting her to the bone as she left. 

Her apartment was only a few blocks away, nestled in between a few buildings and almost hidden from the busy street outside. There were a few trees outside, taking the building completely out of the New York City character.

It wasn’t the best apartment, it was pretty cramped- but it was safe and much nicer than she’d ever expected. It was why she took the job at the ritzy club in the first place.

And with Talisa and the baby relying on her, she’d dance and be oogled and use her body whatever way she needed.

\-------------

Sansa snuck in the apartment quietly, making sure the door was gently pushed closed and locked. It was just past three am, and she hoped Talisa was asleep by now. The baby had been rambunctious lately- he was a fussy kid, almost never satisfied, and he always pushed his mother to the limit.

She wouldn’t ever talk to Talisa about it, but she wondered if the boy could tell something was missing. She wondered if there was some weird connection there, one that couldn’t be explained- if he could feel that his father had been murdered just a few feet in front of him while he slumbered inside Talisa’s belly.

Luckily, baby Robb was fast asleep inside his crib, Talisa sleeping on the edge of the bed beside him, one of her arms still slung over the crib. She looked exhausted, her clothes astray and her hair dirty and unwashed. But she was sleeping, and that was what she needed.

Sansa wanted to wash the night off herself before sleeping, and relished the hot water on her shoulders, easing the tension in her joints. She wondered how long it had been since Talisa had showered. 

After it all happened, Talisa was never the same.

It was six months ago, that she’d first shown up outside Sansa’s apartment. It was her old one, some dingy, dirty place downtown when she was jumping from one sleazy club to another. When she wasn’t all there.

In some dark, twisted way, Sansa was almost grateful for Talisa being there. If she had someone to help, someone to work on, she could take the focus off herself and what she had become. And so, in some fucking weird way, Sansa was better after all of it. As ‘better’ as she could be.

She immediately felt guilty for that, cringing under the stream of water. Robb had been murdered, Talisa had lost her husband and baby Robb his father. It was a shitty thought to think.

Sansa wished Robb was still alive to talk to. She had so many questions for him- mainly, what was he even doing to get himself brutally murdered? What family business shit had he fallen into?

And, most importantly. Out of all people, why did he send Talisa to  _ her?  _

__ She supposed the other choices- Bran, Arya, maybe their cousin Jon- weren’t as appealing. If they were even alive now. She’d cut ties long before.

And Mom was out of the question, considering she was caught in the crossfire alongside him.

But Sansa didn’t have enough time in the world to unpack how that made her feel. Robb was a stinging, aching loss, because he was one of the only good ones in that family, the only one who had tried his best to bring the Starks out of the messy, dark role they had played. The only one who truly tried to help her, even halfway across the world. 

Her mother, however, was one of the main reasons she’d left London with just the clothes on her back. 

It was too fucking late- or, technically, early- to be having these thoughts, Sansa decided.

She laid down in her bed, nestled into her tiny room at the end of the hall. In about twelve hours, she’d be back at the club.

\----------

Talisa was feeding Robb when Sansa left that night.

“Have a good night,” Sansa said weakly, seeing the bags under her eyes and the bleakness inside them. Talisa responded with a small dip of her head, not all there.

Sansa made a note to spend time with her on her day off, maybe getting her some things for a nice bath. She didn’t have much money to spare outside of their rent and baby supplies, since she couldn’t let Talisa raise Robb’s baby in a dingy, smoke-filled apartment downtown. But she could spare some for Talisa.

But being clean wouldn’t change that look in her eyes or the dullness of her being. It made Sansa’s heart hurt.

By the time she made it to work, the dressing room was already a disaster area. It was only seven, but it was a Friday night, too. 

Sansa didn’t argue as the girl beside her took over half her area, didn’t bother making a fuss. Being pushed around didn’t stop her from getting paid.

She always tried to put extra into her look on weekends- it was usually when the businessmen would spend all night at the club, celebrating some big business deal over drinks and girls. They usually found themselves on a different floor, in one of the rooms covered in thick, velvety red curtains. Sansa knew what went on in those rooms, she wasn’t nearly as naive as she looked. But she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t stoop that low.

She could always feel Robb watching her in her head, watching her try and raise Robb and try and keep Talisa from going off the deep end. And she felt anger, bitter and hot in her chest when she imagined his disgusted looks as she took the stage. 

Even if she was keeping Talisa and Robb alive with her income, she would never go up to those velvet rooms, because she couldn’t fathom the Robb in her head seeing that.

Sansa pulled the thigh-highs up her legs, adjusting the white corset-top, trying to pull it up a little higher than where it was supposed to sit. 

“Honey. If you show any less tits, they’ll think that we’re a nunnery.” Ros said with a sigh, pushing a strand of hair off of Sansa’s shoulder. 

Sansa blushed, matching her hair for a second; she felt like a stupid, little girl all over again.

“You’re young. You’re hot. Get as much as you can from them.” Ros said simply, adjusting the strap of her bralette as she stared Sansa down in the mirror.

Sansa thought that was maybe the nicest thing Ros had ever said to her.

Ros left the dressing room, probably going to put back a drink before she went on stage. She had a reputation with alcohol, if the gossip Sansa overhead was any indication.

But maybe Sansa had been wrong. Maybe they didn’t hate her- maybe she just couldn’t fit in with them, couldn’t ever be on their level.

She’s not sure which idea is sadder.

\--------------------

The club doesn’t open till nine, and so Sansa waits in the lounge and watches.

Since no one really talks to her, she sits and waits and listens. She’s heard a lot she wasn’t supposed to her, she thinks, but it isn’t her fault she listens. If they’re loud enough to be heard, they shouldn’t be sharing those secrets. 

Ros is an alcoholic with a history of rehab, Myranda’s boyfriend is a sadistic asshole who’d broken her wrist a few weeks ago, Osha had a criminal history that would put some of the guards’ pasts to shame.

But the most interesting is about the new girl.

Margaery isn’t  _ new  _ new. Apparently she’d been here before, worked at the same club. Which raised a lot of questions that Sansa wanted answers to, but would never dream of asking. Where did you go?  _ Why  _ did you go?

And most of all. Why the fuck would you come back?

This was one of the most expensive, exclusive clubs in New York, if the number of guards, the expensive furniture, and the demographic of the visitors were any indication. So if you were going to leave the club, you would have to have something better outside. And if it was better than this club, it wasn’t stripping or dancing.

And Margaery was amazing.

She was running through her routine in just a pair of tight shorts and a loose tank top, not even in her stage dress yet. The other girls were murmuring about that fact, but Sansa didn’t blame her. It was much easier to practice on the pole outside of the tight corsets and bodysuits, but Sansa didn’t think this was really practicing. More just showing off. A threat, perhaps.

But Margaery was like her, in a way. Her features were softer than the other girls’, her body thin and wiry compared to the curves of the others. Her hair was long and wavy, her lips full and seemingly innocent. Except, where Sansa couldn’t escape that innocent look she had, the second Margaery smirked, one corner lifting on her lips, the innocence was immediately replaced with sex.

A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

And she could dance, spinning around the pole with just strong, twisted thighs, her hands free to writhe and touch. She could drop almost to the floor on her sky-high heels, then twist back up with a smirk and a flash of white teeth.

She was better than Sansa, for sure. But Sansa didn’t feel jealous. She felt something else entirely- and outside of that, she wanted to learn.

Sansa was one of the youngest at the club, another thing that put a target on her back. And Margaery was only four or five years on her, which meant, if Sansa’s math was right, that she started at the club for the very first time when she was young, just like Sansa. They were two birds of a feather, perhaps.

Sansa couldn’t meet her eyes when Margaery’s glance flitted over to her, taking her in.

\-----------------

Sandor Clegane liked the shadows.

It was why he was good at his job- that, and his massive size and nearly inhumane strength. His ugly, scarred face probably played into it as well. All in all, he knew he was born to play the part of the threat. He stopped trying to fight it when he realized the dirty money he could get from it.

Play the part a few hours, rake in the cash. Maybe get a few jobs on the side to rough up an unsuspecting victim that maybe deserved it, maybe didn’t. Sandor could care less.

He couldn’t fit into any other job, wasn’t foolish enough to consider it. The shadows were where he belonged, maybe even say ‘thrived’ if he was some sappy cunt. But he’d never had a reason to be sappy over anything.

Besides. Standing in the shadows to watch over a few girls writhe on stage was much better than some of the previous jobs he’d held. At least in this case, he didn’t have to beat people to an inch of their lives (usually) or stick things under fingernails. He could just stand in the corner and watch, drink an occasional glass of whiskey, and listen to the crone Olenna bitch about this and that. 

His boss had given up on trying to ban drinking on the job. Olenna was a tough cunt, that was for sure, but she quickly understood that there were some things Sandor wouldn’t budge on. They weren’t exactly pals, but they had a mutual understanding. 

So when he got promoted to go and guard at Olenna’s finest club, he took that job with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. Which wasn’t much. 

But fuck, it paid almost double and he suspected that the alcohol was much, much better than the other place. He was pretty sure Olenna was close to closing that other shithole, too, with how many girls had been quitting. It was a win-win.

He had to dress up a lot more than he’d ever been comfortable, which pissed the everloving fuck out of him. He was used to just black jeans and a dark jacket, but now he had to wear some fucking  _ slacks  _ and a dark button-down. Like some domesticated fuck.

He was just gonna sit in the shadows and glare, not be up on stage or some shit. But then he remembered the paycheck, and he decided he’d play dress up for a little bit.

As soon as they opened, Sandor was grateful for that costume he’d been thrown into. 

The crowd wasn’t anything like he was used to. It was all expensive suits and rich cologne, watches worth more than his apartment, small talks about billion-dollar deals and fuckable secretaries. It wasn’t anything like the crowd at the last place- this was all meat from Wall Street.

It was even more disgusting, in a way. Bunch of rich pricks ruling the city, ready to exert their power over other things. He wondered absentmindedly if his paycheck was also doubled because he’d have double the work to do here, double the amount of self-entitled groping and thinly veiled threats. 

He was thankful for his place in the shadows.

The night was mostly the same as he’d always known it; the girls danced, just in fancier, richer corsets and lace, their moves more polished and curated, their faces and bodies more sculpted and hand-picked. A better crop, he supposed. Olenna was picky.

One girl came on stage and owned it; Sandor didn’t know shit about dancing, least of all pole dancing, but he knew that she wasn’t fucking around. And if the muscles in her legs were any indication, she’d been doing this for a while.

But there was something with her that didn’t sit right with him.

The way she eyed the crowd as she rounded the pole, her green, glimmering catching the light and outlining her limber form- it was predatory. The men ate it up, cash thrown at her feet and tucked into the strap of her bra as she leaned close to the ground to throw a few words at one of them. By the looks of it, a few interesting ones. 

But it wasn’t some sexy predatory look. It was the same look he saw on some people that had once worked with him. Some people he’d seen brutally murder others, break necks, rip arms off, contain a bloodlust he’d rarely seen before. 

Honestly, someone he used to be when times were worse.

It unsettled him, made him a little nausea. He didn’t like the smirking brunette.

Luckily, she was off the stage in a flurry of applause. She was damn good, he’d admit. But she wasn’t  _ right.  _ Something felt off.

He pushed it aside- maybe his earlier drink paired with this fucking audience had put him a little too on edge.

If that girl had set him on edge, the next one pushed him off it.

The girl danced to a slow song, completely offsetting the previous dance. She had Sandor holding onto his breath, for more than one reason. 

He’d known these girls weren’t the downtown girls, weren’t the same breed. But goddamn- the slim redhead was a vision in white, almost blending in to her snowy skin, her copper hair falling to her waist in pretty waves. And although she had a downright gorgeous figure, he felt almost  _ guilty  _ for looking at her, oogling her. He felt like a dirty old man.

He didn’t know why- she was obviously old enough to be up there, made the decision to wear that and sway around that pole. But damnit- there was a sad look in her blue eyes, like her little heart was breaking in that very moment, except it stayed there the entire time. Even when her ruby lips twisted into a shy, beautiful smile, she still looked fucking sad. 

And young. God, she was young and innocent and he all of a sudden did not want to be there. He wanted to take that little bird and let her fly far, far away from this world.

He shook off his thoughts, a little disturbed by it. He’d seen younger girls than her on the pole, younger that had even stripped up there. She was just a dumb bird, choosing to be in this industry. Knowing probably  _ exactly  _ how innocent and young and sad she looked up there.

He scoffed a little to himself. He was a fucking sod, thinking any of these women weren’t wolves. They were hardened, just as hardened as he was, and they got there because they were good at playing the part.

And damn. The white thigh-highs marked how tall and slender her legs were, leading up to an hourglass figure accentuated by a sliver of skin showing. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Especially as she winked into the audience once she finished, one of the suits reaching out to kiss her hand as a pretty red blush painted her cheeks, leading down and down into where her top started, so very low…..

Sandor felt a rush of emotions, the familiar sting of hate and disgust towards her and the suits and the whole damn place. But he couldn’t ignore that little bit of jealousy too, deep and stinging, that made him hate it all a little bit more.

If the brunette was a wolf, the redhead was one too. Different breeds, perhaps, but still one in the same.

\--------------

Sansa felt a little woozy coming off the stage, the heady feeling of the lights still clouding her mind. It was an extraordinarily busy night, to her surprise- but with her slow, swaying dance coming right after Margaery’s was a beautiful choice. The lady of the house, Olenna, had done a wonderful job of planning it all, even when Sansa was sure it would ruin her performance.

She needed some air, though. The backstage was a flurry of sequins and lace, sky-high heels and chattering. It was too much for her after a performance- she may be good at being on stage, but she was still shit in a crowd, her anxiety simmering inside of her.

When Sansa reached the roof, she walked into a cloud of smoke. Cigarettes. It burned in her lungs, the feeling too familiar for her liking. She quit a long time ago, before Talisa and the baby came along. 

Coughing a bit, a voice spoke up through the fog.

“Ah, sorry. Bad habit of mine.” 

Margaery’s voice was much smokier than Sansa had expected- much deeper and husky, accented perfectly with her smirk of the lips. She was perched on a container on the roof, smoking a freshly-lit cigarette into the winter night, wrapped in an expensive, heavy fur coat.

“It’s fine.” Sansa said weakly, immediately feeling nervous to be around the girl. She couldn’t pinpoint why- just some voice in her gut that set her on edge when Margaery was around.

“Oh, honey. You’ve got to be freezing.” Margaery said, putting her red, red lips into a small pout. Sansa couldn’t tell if her concern was real or not.

“I’m okay, really. It got a little hot on stage.” Sansa said quickly, flashing a quick smile to her. She suddenly felt awkward, like her whole body was being scrutinized underneath the perfect woman’s eyes. She wasn’t as toned and wiry as Margaery, wasn’t ever truly made for the pole. She was much softer, but still not as perfectly curvaceous as the girls inside. Sansa had the urge to hide from her gaze.

“I saw a bit of your performance. It was beautiful, really.” Margaery said, that same cheshire grin on her face; Sansa had learned a long, long time ago how to read people. But she was looking desperately for the punchline of the joke, for the ‘but’ statement to come- but she never found it.

“Thank you. It- it was nothing compared to yours.” Sansa responded, chuckling a little as she wrung her hands together. She hadn’t felt an urge to smoke in months, but being in front of Margaery made her want a cigarette badly.

“Oh, nonsense. Like comparing apples and oranges- you’re beautiful in ways I could never be. Its what makes you great.” Margaery said, with such an honest intensity that it caught Sansa off guard, made her heart wrench a little. The men, the suits, they all complimented her to no end- but to hear it from someone in the industry was another thing. She couldn’t remember the last honest compliment she’d gotten from a girl without it feeling dishonest.

“Now, come on. This coat is huge.” Margaery laughed, holding her coat open and nodding her head towards the open space it created. Sansa felt a little like a deer in the headlights- but then she quickly made up her mind. It was cold, and fuck it. She needed friends, like some deep ache inside of her.

She snuggled into Margaery’s side, smelling the woman’s rich perfume of roses. It was all she could smell- cigarettes and roses. It suited Margaery.

And then Margaery was handing her a cigarette, lighting it in her mouth. Sansa barely registered it, almost halfway done with the cigarette when Margaery started talking again.

“If you ever need help with moves….. I’ve been around the pole more than a few times.” Margaery said, grinning to herself as she looked out into the city skyline around them.

“Oh, god yes.” Sansa breathed, laughing a little at her sudden response. “I need so much help. I feel like I’m fucking awful.”

Margaery laughed at that. “You’re not awful- a bit inexperienced, but you’ve got more potential than those girls downstairs could ever dream of.”

Sansa smiled a little as she took her next drag of her cigarette.

“I’m thinking of some more things we could do around here, too.” Margaery said, a bit more quiet this time. Her voice had taken on a different tone, her eyes turning a little darker as she looked out to the city. Sansa was a little taken aback at the sudden change of tone.

“I haven’t been here more than a few weeks, so I can’t really talk much about improvements….” Sansa added, her voice a little rushed with anxiousness. She chided herself in her head- stop being so damn flighty, you idiot. 

“There was a club before this, one that I worked at in London.” Margaery said, and Sansa was surprised at her honesty. She could’ve said a lot to that, could’ve opened up with her own honesty-

_ My family is from London. _

__ _ My family does a lot of dirty things in London. _

__ _ They’re no longer my family. _

__ _ I can’t ever go back to London. _

__

__ But Sansa had buried that part of her deep, deep down. Her chosen last name was Stone, but it never mattered. No one in her line of work ever had last names, and no one she ever associated with asked about it. She was no longer Sansa Stark from London, and Margaery didn’t need to know that.

“Oh wow. London sounds beautiful.” Sansa lied. London was fucking terrible. London was what kept her up at night.

“It was. They do things a bit differently over there, too.” Margaery noted, her voice calculated and calm. Sansa wondered if she was weighing each word that came out, as if she were worried Sansa may fly away.

“Do you like the men in suits down there, Sansa? Are they fun to be with?” Margaery asked suddenly, changing her view from the city skyline to Sansa’s eyes, trapping her in deep, dark blue. 

“I- I’m not sure.” Sansa stumbled. “They’re a bit….. Entitled?”

Her word was a little questioning, trying to gauge if that was the answer she wanted. It wasn’t a lie- she couldn’t count the times she’d been touched or groped before a guard stepped in, even just in the past few weeks. She lived with it as best as she could, slapping away hands while they called her a bitch, trying to picture her paycheck and Talisa and baby Robb.

Margaery just grinned, a predatory look on her face. “Oh, sweet, sweet Sansa. How right you are.”

She took a long drag from her cigarette, shaking her head with that smile still on her features. As if she were having a little laugh with herself.

“I know ways we could take back a little bit of ourselves.” Margaery said, her words clouded with meaning. “Do you know how filthy rich these Wall Street suits are? How much they blow at these places for a few hours to cheat on their wives at home? How much they screw over every other business and person in New York, Sansa?”

The words washed over Sansa, her mind trying to stay one step ahead of Margaery, trying to brace Sansa for whatever her meaning was. But staying one step ahead of her was impossible- where Sansa tried to stay a few steps ahead, Margaery was already a few miles ahead, every step calculated and measured. 

“They’re filthy, filthy men, Sansa.” Margaery said softly, shaking her brown curls around her head. 

Sansa could at least nod her head in agreement at that.

“I think it’s time we take some control.” Margaery said, a glint in her eyes as she studied Sansa’s response, measured the wrinkle in Sansa’s brow.

Control wasn’t something Sansa had ever had. The only control she had over her life was moving across the atlantic, the choice to show her body and her movements to make a life. Outside of that, she was just a puppet.

Control sounded disturbingly appealing to her, a strong hand gripping her heart and telling her she  _ needed this.  _

“But you just think about it in that pretty head of yours.” Margaery said, not rudely- she brushed a piece of red hair behind Sansa’s hair, petting the side of her face with the smooth skin on the back of her hand. Sansa had never been around someone so touchy, so loving with her movements. She wondered if that were calculated, too.

“If you come in an hour early tomorrow, I’ll show you a few moves I picked up in London.” Margaery winked, putting out her cigarette on the ground beside her and flicking it off the edge of the building. She stood with a flurry of furs, gently pulling it from Sansa’s shoulders. Sansa immediately missed the warmth of her soft body next to hers, missed the furs on her bare shoulders. She ached from the loss of physical touch. 

“Now, come on, dove. Let us get back into our cage.”


End file.
